Birthdays are supposed to be about laughter, candles, and celebration — a day to pause and be surrounded by love. But that year, when I turned forty-seven, the house felt unusually still. The kind of silence that doesn’t just fill a room — it lingers in the air, pressing against every memory.
I stood in the kitchen as evening sunlight stretched through the curtains. The table was already set for three, just as it had been every night for the past two years.
One plate for me. One for my husband, Brad.
And one for Karen — my daughter.
Her chair had been empty for so long that the sight should have grown easier, but it never did. Each meal was a quiet reminder of her absence, of unanswered questions and unspoken words that filled our home like shadows. Two years without a call, a message, or even a letter — two years since she had walked out of my life, leaving behind a silence I didn’t know how to break.
Brad never once asked me to stop setting her place. He understood, even when I didn’t say a word. Every plate, every fork laid beside her untouched seat, was my small act of hope. It was how I told myself that maybe, one day, she would walk through that door again.
That evening, the same quiet ritual unfolded. Dinner was served but barely touched. The candles flickered softly, their light dancing over the silverware. When it came time to make a wish, I closed my eyes as the flame wavered before me.
“Please,” I whispered, “let me see my daughter again.”
I blew out the candle, the smoke curling upward like a prayer carried into the unknown.